Friday night, I started thinking about vacations, and how long it’s been since I’ve been on one (erhm, 2004). The thing that always kept me from going on vacations was money. I’m not the kind of person who can get her tax refund and go screaming into the world of LET’S SPEND ALL THIS MONEY RIGHT AWAY WHOO-HOO. I’m the kind of person who gets her tax refund and pays her rent in advance.

Thrilling, I know.

So I thought about how much money I have now and how I could pretty much go anywhere I wanted for vacation. For roughly 7 seconds, I planned my vacation.

Then I remembered that I can’t go on vacation because I have to buy a house. The brakes squealed in my brain. Goddammit, I thought. I have to buy a house. I’m not even buying new books this year. My yearly book expenditure was something like $600. That’s not even a grand and I’m not doing that. So definitely no vacation.

But Self, I thought, wouldn’t a vacation do wonders for your mental health? Wouldn’t it be so great to remember what it’s like to wander around where no one knows you? Didn’t you love getting drunk in foreign countries? Wouldn’t it be so grand to go on vacation?

Well, Self, I thought, those are very good questions. Here are the Reasons Why I Must Buy A House:

1. I want to know that I can. Some women need to know their reproductive organs work and so must have a baby; I could give a fuck about my ovaries but need to know that I can sustain a mortgage.

2. I am almost thirty. After the credit ruination called “my divorce,” I was under the assumption that I could assume no financial liability until I was 30. Which may still be the case, but people worse than me can do it, so why the hell not?

3. I am sick of living in apartments. Okay, fine, so one of my neighbors took my trash out the dumpster the other day. Way nice. But I’m really tired of the late night foosball tournaments and I want to have parties without warning the people downstairs.

4. I need a yard. More accurately, I need a dog, but I’m responsible enough to wait until I have a yard that is connected to a house.

5. I am running out of space for my books. Okay, that’s kind of a lie. To begin, my apartment is the size of some people’s houses. Also, the second bedroom in my place is currently my library (yeah, I have a library). Third, I don’t really have enough bookshelves for all my current books, and fourth, I’m on a new book ban until I can get a house. But it’s a good excuse. Books.

6. Housewarming parties are so awesome when you can pass out drunk on your own floor. THAT YOU OWN.

7. I have finally (kind of) learned to keep my place clean (most of the time, at least when I need to). What better way to showcase these mad skillz than by spreading out in a place I can stay in for, like, ever if I want to?

8. I want a dark gray bedroom. A dark-yet-soft bluish gray bedroom is at the heart of all my fantasies involving 10+ hours of sleep. The only thing even remotely close in coolness is AB Chao’s bedroom (hot damn that woman can design), but all those windows would really cut into my naptimes.

9. Also I want a turquoise kitchen. Or an orange one.

10. When I say “my house,” I want it to be as correct as possible. Saying “my apartment” sounds so lame (when you live in St. Louis, because in bigger/better/greater cities it’s just normal), which is why I hardly ever do it.

11. My friend (and former boss) is a super fabulous real estate agent with ads in the checkout lanes at Schnuck’s.

12. Equity. Duh.

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About erineph

I'm Erin. I have tattoos and more than one cat. I am an office drone, a music writer, and an erstwhile bartender. I am a cook in the bedroom and a whore in the kitchen. Things I enjoy include but are not limited to zombies, burritos, Cthulhu, Kurt Vonnegut, Keith Richards, accordions, perfumery, and wearing fat pants in the privacy of my own home.